


Period of Adjustment

by Abraxas



Series: Rules of Engagement [3]
Category: The Closer
Genre: AU, F/M, General, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxas/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to 'A Little Tenderness'; The morning-after-the-night-before, Brenda and Flynn try to adjust to their change in relationship while keeping it secret at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Period of Adjustment

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** I DO NOT OWN _THE CLOSER_ OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS - I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM.
> 
> **AUTHOR NOTE: **This is a follow-up for 'A Little Tenderness', so we're back in that lovely little AU where it's all Brenda/Flynn lovin' all the time. FANMIX is available [HERE](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=X5ZJCX1S)

[ ](http://s269.photobucket.com/albums/jj71/Abraxas_5/?action=view&current=PoA.png)

_In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs_

_In their dreams their brains took each other hostage_

_In the morning they wore each other's face._

-Ted Hughes

_1\. _

In the morning the air is already heavy, clammy. There's a tang to it, like brine, slightly sour; it tastes like air that has already been used. Brenda doesn't notice that. When she glances out of the window, briefly, as she trails from her bedroom to the kitchen for coffee she notices that the high cloud looks pleasantly hazy in the washed-out sky; she notices the leaves shivering in the warm breeze; when she looks in the mirror she notices that she is glowing.

She can still feel him.

It's like he's still there, everywhere, amused eyes watching her out of corners.

Under the shower, the water - like always - is red-hot and she lathers her skin, washing away the pleasant, unfamiliar smell and feels a pang of regret. She thinks that they are deluding themselves if they believe that they can take this any further; and she can't bear the thought that one night is all there might be to it. One night might have to be enough and she clings to the memory of it and rinses him off her body.

But she can still feel-

There is way, of course; if he were to transfer to another squad-

The thought is unconscionable. She rejects it immediately, and shakes the water out of her hair. On the edge of her unmade bed, with its rumpled sheets and its pillows indented by two heads, she sits for a while, a long while, and remembers. The weight of his hand on her thigh, his mouth against the swell of her breasts, the way he had said her name, the look in his eyes when he had made her look at him. The way her heart had hammered in her chest when her fingers had traced the lines of his face and she hadn't said all of the things that had thudded in her head. And she remembers the sparring and the antagonism and how appealing the idea of never seeing him again had once been and _if she were never to see him again-_

His lips brushing hers could be so gentle.

The ring of her phone is an intrusion, something that cuts through what has been, this small world that she doesn't want to leave, and brings her back. There will be blood and misery and the broken body of the victim, or victims, and the distraught faces of the survivors. Sergeant Gabriel's voice greets her courteously and with formality and then delivers the report. After she hangs up she sits for a few moments more, her body still singing with the sense-memory of hands, first gentle then hard, mapping its contours.

She dresses and leaves behind a tangle of sheets.

_2._

There is blood and a broken body lying in a shallow grave and the smell that rises up drives them all back, involuntarily, hands pressed against their mouths. Flynn braces himself against the rank air, gulps in a breath between his fingers and tries to root himself in the things he knows; but instead of the black humour he keeps like a perpetual shield he finds the image of a golden-haired woman, and the deflecting words that usually save him are gone.

Panic.

Then, resignedly, he thinks that this is her long-deferred revenge: she has undone him completely.

Beside him Buzz is silent, camera hefted up on his shoulder, steady, his face set and white. He's seen, plenty of times, the footage that Buzz takes - and him a civilian - and he thinks that if anyone deserves a medal it's this quiet man, just for being able to keep his hands from shaking when he takes all of this in.

Then behind him there is movement; Gabriel suddenly surges forward and he knows that she has arrived. And he braces himself again. When he turns she is walking across the dried grass, head half-turned towards Gabriel while he talks at her. Her trench-coat is pink today, that big damn bag still over her shoulder and her shoes just as inappropriate as ever. Later on she'll slip them off, one at a time, and lean against Tao's desk and massage the balls of her feet.

Her eyes, like his, are hidden by dark glasses and when she reaches him her head jerks. 'Lieutenant.'

'Hey, Chief.'

He dips into his notebook, trying to decipher the scrawl that is passing for his handwriting today, and brings her up to speed on anything that Gabriel has left out.

They all have a say: Sanchez talking earnestly, his dark eyes glancing from side to side before he begins as though checking that they won't be overheard; Tao taking fifty words where five will do... All the little rituals that they've established for themselves, the ones that keep the horror, the disgust, beyond the barriers they erect around their sanity.

Today there is silence where his words ought to be. He feels Provenza looking at him and refuses to meet the older man's eyes.

He catches the scent of her hair on the breeze, and it steadies him.

When he tilts his head and makes the joke they all roll their eyes and laugh and everything is all right with the world.

He sees the corner of her mouth turn up and releases the breath that he didn't know he'd been holding.

One strap of her bag starts to creep down her shoulder and she catches it, heaves the whole thing higher, settling it into place, and grabs holds of Flynn's arm, using him to steady herself while she slithers down the few feet into the shallow pit. She pulls back the tarpaulin and the smell is immediately worse.

'Do we know anything about this tarp yet?' she calls up.

'It's blue,' he tells her.

Her lips thin and she glares at him, withering, through her sunglasses. And then bends over the body again, her face close to the corpse and its fetid, rotting skin. It is what she always does. Her habitual citation that it is what she has to do is more self-imposed than official. In their own way they all try to spare her it, and they all fail. But when she is finished Flynn is there to pull her out. He holds out a hand and when her fingers close around his he recalls their strength, how delicate they can be and how nimble.

When they are level again her fingers stay twined through his longer than necessary. The long blonde curls frame her face and she smiles slightly, and uncertainly, at him and he relishes the warm pressure of her hand in his. His hold on her tightens, just for a second, then releases as she turns away, giving out the orders. Kitten to lioness in one movement.

They move around the depression and its grisly contents, so that the wind carries the stench away from them. But it will still be there, for hours more, in their clothes and their hair. They carry the smell of death with them most of the time, they've just stopped noticing.

The squad breaks up, heading out to take on their assigned tasks. Provenza waits for him by the car, leaning against the bonnet, his arms crossed, an exaggerated study in patience. Flynn lets him wait, holding back while she gives him a few final instructions that are wholly unnecessary as far as the case is concerned.

They stand, facing each other, and talk about warrants and blood stains. And they say romance is dead, he thinks to himself, and then has to admit that he's believed firmly in its demise for a long time - if it had ever been alive to begin with.

There's movement in the scrub next to them, something scrambling through. A cat - once tame and now feral - pokes its head out, then trots over, presses itself against his legs. Brenda stares down at the dusty mottled coat.

'Cats really like you,' she observes, thoughtful.

'Small animals and women, Chief, they find me irresistible.'

She looks up at him, the corners of her mouth turning up into a slow, soft smile that he's already come to recognise.

'So I've noticed.' Her smile widens and he clenches his hands, stopping himself from reaching out to touch her. 'Kitty is actually a girl cat,' she says suddenly.

'Huh?'

'A girl cat,' she repeats, 'he had kittens.'

And she'd walked through Parker Centre with them in a box. 'Yeah, I remember; they were ... fluffy.'

She tilts her head and her face screws up, the way it does when she's working out a problem. 'Do you think it's strange that I call him a him even though he's a her?'

'It's your cat, you can call it whatever you want. It's not like it's going to know the difference.' His eyes narrow, curious. 'Why?'

The lines smooth out again and she's smiling, a different smile but it still leaves him feeling light-headed.

'Just wondering.'

Back at his car, he doesn't hear Provenza grumbling - it's all just a background haze. There's a song on the radio that he doesn't recognise but his fingers drum against the steering wheel in time to its beat.

'You're in a good mood,' Provenza states - no, accuses - and keeps his eyes narrowed.

'Yeah, but don't hold it against me.'

'What happened?'

'I just got word that the life insurance policy I took out on you matured; I'll be pushing you off a cliff any day now.'

'Asshole.' Then nothing for a few minutes; then: 'What happened to the cravings?'

'I got over them.'

He smiles slightly to himself. After last night, he may never want or need anything else ever again.

_3\. _

She thinks that by now she really should have learnt to keep a spare set of clothes at work. It's one of those things that she tells herself she'll do, one day, but never does. It doesn't seem to be something that anyone else on the squad has got around to either, if they'd ever thought about it at all. They're all showing the signs of wear. Even Daniels - always so perfect - looks frazzled, black curls escaping the rough chignon at the back of her head. And Flynn- Andy. She tries to get used to it, this new way of thinking about him. His jacket hangs neatly at the back of his chair, his collar unbuttoned, discreetly, and his tie only slightly loosened. She would have got through some of her work faster, she thinks, if she hadn't kept being distracted by every move he's made.

And he would, of course, have to have the desk right outside her office.

Each time she looks up her eyes move to find him: head bent over the files on his desk, or on the phone, his face serious, frowning slightly; over at the coffee pots, refilling his mug for the hundredth time and she's sure that that much caffeine can't be good for one person; hovering at Provenza's desk exchanging the usual insults that signify their friendship. Walking back to his own desk and his eyes meeting hers and through the glass barriers they share the small smiles of new lovers, secret lovers.

And later, much later, when the heart-attack inducing box of take-out has been shared around and the Murder Room is littered with half-filled containers of cold chow mein, he comes into her office, notebook in hand, and she peers at him, blearily, her attention still on her computer and the images she's trying to tame on her monitor.

'We finally got hold of the vic's ex, and she's a real piece of work- Chief?'

'I'm listening, Lieutenant.' She squints at the monitor, prods at the keyboard.

'Uh, do you want me to come back later?'

'No, I want to be able to look at this satellite feed. I can't make any sense of it, it's so small...'

He crosses the office floor, moving around her desk so that he stands behind her, looking over her shoulder. 'You just need to make it bigger. Here.'

He bends over her and she breathes in the light scent of his aftershave. The images expand, filling the screen. She turns her face up to him. 'How do you know how to do that?'

'Tao showed me.'

She still stares at him.

'It was a slow day and it was either that or watch Provenza work his way through the Big Book of Crosswords.'

'You're the one who bought it for him.'

'And I regret it, trust me.'

They look at each other and she turns back, reaching for the mouse and the satellite images shrink again. He bends over her.

'Look, it's-'

'I can do it,' she says, batting his hand away. It hovers uncertainly in the air for a moment, then comes to rest on the back of her chair. When she leans back she's aware of their proximity; she'd only have to move a very little to make a physical connection. He's the one who moves, the tip of one finger running along the curve of her neck just above her collar. She catches her breath, holds it for a moment. They both stare intently at the monitor and she's sure that he doesn't see anything more than she does.

'Stop it,' she says eventually, 'you'll get us both into trouble.'

'Yes, ma'am.' There is a heavy dose of irony in his voice. She misses the warmth against her skin as soon as it's gone.

'What was it you came in here to tell me?'

'Uh...' Silence for a moment and then the words come. 'The ex-wife, Kerry, she's in Nevada, Reno, the place where all good marriages go to die-'

'Lieutenant-'

'Sorry. Anyway, she's a croupier at one of the casinos and she was working a double shift day before yesterday, so unless she's got a time machine I'm thinking we can cross her off our list of suspects. I mean, persons of interest.' He still manages to make that sound like a hanging offence. 'But if you want I can get the Reno boys to pick her up.'

'I-'

She stops as Gabriel walks past; he doesn't come in but his eyes dart towards them; she watches his slim figure disappear around the corner beyond the vending machine. 'He was looking at us,' she says.

'You can't get any privacy around here.'

She turns slightly in her chair. 'I'm serious, Lieu- Fl- Oh, I don't even know what to call you in private!' When she looks up at him she wishes she hadn't; in place of the cynic with the answer for everything is a man with an open, honest face - a handsome face - watching her as though she's his whole world.

'You can always try my name,' he says; he smiles faintly. 'You didn't have a problem with it last night.'

Heat floods her cheeks. 'That was different,' she murmurs. She had said his name then, gasped it. 'What are we going to do? Everyone will know.'

He lets out a breath of laughter. 'Oh come on, no-one knew about Gabriel and Daniels for a year; and when we did find out it was just sheer dumb luck. Some detectives... If they can keep that under wraps I don't see why we can't.'

'Hypocrite.'

'No, I've just changed my mind about stuff like this. I have no problem admitting when I've been wrong, and I was wrong. I don't think that anyone should tell anyone else anything about their private lives ever.'

The finality of his statement makes her smile; she's never been comfortable discussing things of a personal nature, even with the people to whom she is the closest; and when she thinks about it the things that she knows about Flynn - Andy - she can count on the fingers of one hand. She looks at him again, turning her face to his. There is a quietness behind his eyes, a very private person shielded by all that hardboiled sarcasm. A world-weary knight seeing the world though jade-coloured glasses, who knows he's tilting at windmills but tilts at them just the same because it's the right thing to do.

She studies him, and everything in her tightens.

'What do you want me to do about Kerry?'

'I-' She shakes her head, clearing it. 'You're right, she's probably a dead end. Can you get back onto Narcotics and see if someone in that division will actually give us the information we asked for, please? Thank-you.'

'I'm on it,' he says; at the door, just before he opens it, he turns. 'You should go home, get some rest.'

It's said with typical bluntness and the corners of her mouth twitch. 'I'm fine.' His eyes wander over her.

'Yeah...'

'I do not look that bad!' She is indignant, rakes her hands through her hair and feels where it's sticking out in odd places. 'Do I?'

There is the softening again, the change in his face. 'No. You do look tired though.' He pulls himself up, shoulders straightening almost imperceptibly; when he speaks again the familiar hard edge is back in voice. 'I'll go down to Narcotics, see if they need a hand with their filing system.'

She can imagine what sort of hand he'll give; and she'd feel sorry for what is about to be unleashed on whichever unfortunate soul will be working that division at this hour, if their incompetence hadn't annoyed her to begin with. Flynn, however, will enjoy every second of it and she watches him stride across the Murder Room and the swagger in his shoulders when he moves.

Then she turns her attention back to battling technology and thinks that in a little while maybe she'll make the journey home.

_4\. _

Driving home, and Flynn thinks it's a good thing that there are few cars around because he's a hazard on four wheels. He doesn't mind the long hours - he never has - except when there is no success at the end; but even then the resentment isn't for the work, just for the failure. But now, at least, the edges of the picture are there, all the rest starting to come into focus. The chief, Brenda, of course she'll have more of the pieces. She always does. He hasn't quite given up on trying to figure out how her mind works. It is a futile distraction, but a pleasant one.

Weariness seeps through, weighing his limbs.

Tomorrow, perhaps, tomorrow when he's able to think straight and then it might all makes sense.

He drives slower than usual, not taking any chances.

But he still keeps turning it over, worrying away at it; it's like a fire banked down but still burning and it will stay that way until it's resolved and he leaves it there in the background. He's become accustomed to it over the years; there is always a problem to work over. And today there has been something else that he's held at bay but now he lets himself give in and he thinks about her. He thinks about the scent of her perfume that had clung to his skin, about the fine strands of her hair wound around his fingers; he thinks about the curves of her body stretched under his and her heavy-lidded eyes.

Two nights in a row he had driven her home and now, when she isn't there, he misses her.

Threading along the narrow street, he pulls into the kerb and almost forgets to brake. For a moment he thinks that maybe he is actually already asleep because she's there, sitting on the top step of the short flight that leads up to his front door. The light from the street lamp catches her hair. She still sits when he walks up to her.

'Are you crazy? Sitting out here on your own- It's the middle of the night!'

'This is a safe neighbourhood,' she says and her dark eyes glitter.

'I know what kind of neighbourhood this is, I live here.'

They stare at each other. Her purse rests on her knees, its sides bulging more than usual. He looks at it then back up to her face.

'I brought a change of clothes.' Her chin lifts, defiant.

'Well, you had better come in.'

She stands up, takes the one step up to the stoop and he watches the way her hips sway, follows the lean lines of her legs. And he wonders what he's supposed to say. Great to see you? Glad you came? It all seems so inadequate.

'I'm really glad you're here.'

Her smile is dazzling; there's a light in her face as though these simple words are a great gift he's given her. His fingers feel thick and he fumbles the key, scraping it hopelessly against the keyhole before he manages to unlock the door.

She hovers uncertainly on the stoop, the purse clutched tightly against her chest. Small animals and women, he thinks, remembering the earlier joke; he goes inside, leaves the door open for her and starts turning on lights until she follows him in. She closes the door, leans against it, takes in her surroundings. Eventually she might even take a few steps in, he thinks. He stays where he is and waits. Her eyes make a full sweep of the room, lingering over certain items and he sees the flicker of interest. She comes back to him.

'I should have called first.'

He frowns. 'Why?'

'I-' Her shoulders rise and fall. 'It's what people do.'

'You mean regular people.'

They share a smile, wry, and she laughs a little. 'Yes, I guess I do.' She still clutches the bulging black leather, holding it like a shield.

'Do you, uh, want to put that down?'

Her eyes are wide then she takes a breath, inches across the floor. 'Yes; yes, thank-you. Andy.' She says it like she's been practising.

'See, Chief, that wasn't so hard.'

Her face screws up again. 'Shouldn't you call me by my first name too?'

He shrugs. 'I thought it would be easier if you had one thing at a time to get used to; I mean, if we start making all of these big changes right at the start-'

'Stop talking.' It's somewhere between a groan and an order; her hands rest flat against his chest, her head tilting back.

He grins at her, his arms sliding around her waist, 'Yes, ma'am,' and her breath is warm against his lips.

****

FIN


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